by Emma Miller
Chapter Seven
Phoebe laughed as James lurched toward a rabbit cutting across the driveway in front of them. “I don’t think you’re going to catch him, not today,” she told him, taking his hand, which was covered by a flannel mitten. They were walking down to the mailbox at the end of the long driveway, but the trip was taking far longer than she had anticipated. Like her son, James had to stop after every couple of steps to pick up a leaf or a rock off the ground or, in this case, try to reach for something he would never catch.
“Come on,” she encouraged, trying to steer him forward. “Let’s go this way.” The moment she let go of his hand, though, he veered off again. This time toward the door of the harness shop.
“Ne, we’re going to the mailbox, remember?” she told him, reaching for his hand.
James made a beeline for the door, moving as fast as his chubby little legs would carry him. “Dat!” he cried. Or something close to it.
Phoebe sighed. James had been restless all morning. Josiah had a runny nose and wasn’t feeling well. He’d been feeling so poorly that Rosemary had decided to put him down for an early nap. And like most twins Phoebe had known, James was a little lost without his sibling. That was the reason she had decided to take him for a walk, to get his mind off missing his brother. And someone needed to fetch the mail anyway because Rosemary was eagerly awaiting her latest copy of the Amish newspaper, the Budget. She had expected it the day before and had been quite perturbed it was late again. The paper was useful to Amish families because it included pages of advertisements for items they couldn’t make easily at home, like men’s hats and certain tools. More importantly, it was full of the news of Amish communities all over the United States and Canada. By way of the Budget, Rosemary could keep up with births and deaths and visits in their old town in New York, as well as friends and relatives in other states.
James toddled toward the shop door as his knit cap slid down over his eyes. He was dressed just like the other men in the household, in a denim coat, denim pants with suspenders and rubber boots. Chuckling, Phoebe leaned over him and adjusted his hat. “How can you see anything, you silly goose?” she asked him.
He responded with something she couldn’t understand. All she caught was her name. He and Josiah both called her Fifi.
“All right,” she told James. “We’ll go find your dat, but we’re only staying a minute. Your mam will be wanting to know where you’ve gotten to if you’re gone too long. I would think Josiah will be up by the time we get back.”
Phoebe reached over his head and pushed on the door. As it opened, a little bell jingled over her head.
James spotted his big sister behind the counter and immediately toddled in her direction.
Bay glanced up as she opened the cash register to make change for a customer. “Hi ya, Phoebe. Josh isn’t here if you’re looking for him,” she called, counting out the dollar bills as she removed them from the drawer.
“Ne, we weren’t.” Phoebe closed the door behind her, wondering if he had said anything to Bay about the agreement between them to keep their relationship to themselves at least for a little while longer. She doubted it. Did that mean Bay had figured it out? Because if so, it wouldn’t be long before everyone else in the household knew. Which made Phoebe think maybe Joshua was right, maybe it was time to sit down with Benjamin and Rosemary and discuss the matter.
Shifting her thoughts, Phoebe asked, “New wreath?” pointing to the door. The previous one had had a big red bow on it; this one was green gingham.
“Ya.” Bay handed the customer at the counter his change and closed the cash register drawer. She smiled up at him. “Have a good day. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” the man in a Clark’s Feed baseball cap and sheepskin coat responded, taking his bag with him.
Phoebe nodded as he walked by but avoided eye contact. Bay and her sisters were so good at dealing with Englisher men. They were used to them, she supposed, what with the harness shop and having a table of items to sell during the warmer months at Spence’s Bazaar. Growing up, Phoebe hadn’t gotten off the farm often and when she did, she mostly interacted with other Amish women.
“Bay-Bay,” James said excitedly, throwing his arms out to his sister.
Bay leaned over the counter, lifted James up and plopped him down on top of it. “A lady came yesterday and wanted to buy the one with the red bow right off the door,” she said to Phoebe as she tugged her brother’s cap off his head and ruffled his rusty-colored hair. “Offered an extra five dollars.”
“Did you take it?” Phoebe asked.
The bell over the door rang again as the man left the shop, and she and Bay and the little one were alone.
“Ne.” Bay handed James a little paper bag to play with. “I have plenty of wreaths that size in the back, pine and spruce. I just grabbed another one and put a bow on it. Nettie made the gingham bow from scraps she found in Mam’s sewing room.”
“I can’t believe you’ve sold so many wreaths,” Phoebe commented. “Close to fifty already, Joshua told me.” She studied a shelf of jars of fruit preserves for sale, the lids covered with pretty squares of fabric.
Not only did the harness shop repair leather works and sell all sorts of bridles and harnesses and such, but they also sold assorted items for animal care and the household. And now they were selling foodstuffs: baked goods, jams and jellies, pickles and fresh eggs. Joshua had told her that Bay was behind the idea, and since the addition of such things the whole business had been booming. Men came in for harness or leather repairs, but female customers were beginning to stop by, too, just to see what the Stutzman women were selling now.
“I thought twenty dollars was too much for a wreath to begin with,” Bay went on. “But an Englisher lady came in this morning and bought three. She said I was the cheapest around.”
“And the nicest, I’m sure,” Phoebe told her, straightening a jar of strawberry jam so that the label was front and center. “Selling many of the preserves?”
“So many that I may have to accept a couple of cases off Eunice.” She rolled. “And then she’ll likely be telling everyone that I couldn’t sell the ones we made.”
Phoebe chuckled. “I don’t think she means things the way they sometimes sound. She seems like she has a good heart. She just speaks before she thinks.”
“Ya, you’re probably right. Mam says the same. But...” Bay shrugged and then lifted James into her arms. “You want to go see your dat?” she asked him, looking into his sweet face. He had a bright circle of red on each cheek. “I hear your dat’s voice, I do. He must be back from Dover.”
“I didn’t mean to bother you.” Phoebe pushed her hands into the pockets of her denim barn coat. She’d removed her mittens when they came inside, but now she was chilly. “We were headed to the mailbox, but James insisted we come inside. Josiah is napping.”
“Ah.” Bay bounced James on her hip, looking down at him. “And you’re missing your bruder, ya?” James smiled.
“I think so,” Phoebe answered for him.
Bay glanced at her. “You want to go to the mailbox and come back for him? I’ll take him to see Benjamin. Be a lot faster without him,” she said, already headed for the door that led to the rear of the shop. There, Joshua and his brothers and Ginger made repairs to the leather goods that were dropped off by customers.
“True enough.” Phoebe tightened her blue wool scarf under her chin. “I can stop for him on my way back to the house. If you don’t mind, of course. I know you have the cash register to mind.”
Bay halted in the doorway and turned back to her. “I’ll hear if anyone comes in. That’s why we put the bell over the door.”
Phoebe smiled. “Danke.” Then, buttoning the top of her coat and pulling her mittens out of her pocket, she stepped back out into the cold. Head down, she started for the end of the lane and the mailbox.
>
Phoebe had offered to walk down and check it for Rosemary, but her intention was at least partially selfish. She hadn’t heard from her mother in two weeks, despite having sent her three letters, and she was hoping for news from her today. Phoebe kept telling herself it was just that her mother was busy with the little ones, a busy house to run and a demanding husband. But she still worried. The last she had heard from her, John-John was calling Edom vadder.
Trying not to fret, Phoebe followed the driveway the last quarter of a mile to the road. On her way, she had to get out of the lane twice for customers headed to the harness shop: first a buggy, then a red pickup truck. When she reached the big black mailbox fastened to a salt-treated post, she eagerly opened it. Sure enough, Rosemary’s newspaper was there, as well as several circulars advertising sales at stores in town. Wrapped in the circulars was a phone bill, an invitation for a credit card for Ben Miller and, at last, a small white envelope with her mother’s neat handwriting across the front.
Phoebe’s first impulse was to rip open the letter right there, but the sun had disappeared behind the clouds and the wind had picked up. Suddenly she was chilled. So instead of standing there on the road and reading it, she hurried back to the harness shop. Once inside the door, with no sign of Bay or James, she laid the other mail on a metal shelf that displayed an assortment of flea, tick and mange products and ripped open the envelope.
The moment she unfolded the thin piece of writing paper, she knew something was wrong. The letter was short. No news of the house or the family, just three sentences that could not possibly have come from her mother. Except that she knew they did because it was her mother’s handwriting, neat and dark, written with a blue pen. Her mother always wrote in blue pen.
Daughter,
After much prayer and contemplation, your stepfather has made the decision to adopt John. Paperwork from the state requiring your signature will be mailed to you in Hickory Grove. We hope you are well of body and soul.
Your mother
Phoebe’s chest tightened and her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment she felt as if she wasn’t getting any air. She read the letter again and then a third time, certain she had misread it. But she hadn’t. Your stepfather has made the decision to adopt John. The words cut her so deeply that she felt her heart might be bleeding. “No,” she whispered. “You can’t do that.” She crumpled the letter in her hand. “He can’t do that.”
At that moment, Bay walked into the shop from the back. “Benjamin took James back up to the house. They decided they needed hot chocolate.”
Phoebe nodded slowly, only half hearing what she was saying. She just couldn’t believe Edom would try to take her son away from her. She couldn’t believe he thought he had that right.
“Are you okay?” Bay asked, staring at her.
For a moment, Phoebe couldn’t find her voice. She didn’t know what to do. There was no way to call her mother to ask what the letter meant. How could Edom adopt John? Surely he had no right to do that. And even if he did think he had that right, what had ever given him, or her mother for that matter, the idea that she would even agree to such a thing? But even if she could call her mother, Phoebe knew her mother would side with her husband. She had a feeling it was Edom who had dictated the letter. Her mother would never have used the words requiring your signature. Her mother had been an orphan, raised by neighbors. She had only attended school until she was ten before the family began keeping her at home so she could work on their dairy farm.
“Phoebe?” Bay said, walking around the counter.
Phoebe looked up at her. She needed Joshua. He would know what to do. He would know how to keep her stepfather from taking her son. “Do...do you know where Joshua is?” she asked, her voice sounding like someone else’s.
“In the smokehouse,” Bay answered, concern in her voice. “Tidying up. Phoebe—”
Phoebe turned around stiffly and opened the door. The little bell rang over her head, but she barely heard it. All she could think of was putting one foot in front of the other. She had to find Joshua because she couldn’t let Edom take her son. She wouldn’t let him.
Phoebe walked back out into the cold, closing the door behind her.
A moment later, she heard it open.
“Phoebe!” Bay called after her. “You forgot the mail!”
But Phoebe didn’t turn back because she had to find Joshua. She had to save her son.
* * *
The smokehouse was Phoebe’s favorite outbuilding on the Miller farm. Maybe it was because her family had never had one, or maybe it was because it was another representation of the abundance here in Hickory Grove. Growing up, she remembered often going to bed hungry, not just for physical sustenance, but emotional, as well. Benjamin and Rosemary not only fed their children’s bodies, but also their souls.
One foot in the door, Phoebe was overcome by the rich smells of smoked shad, salted and sugar-cured hams, and, of course, the smoked hams that hung in rows from the dark beams overhead. Feeding a large family necessitated forethought and planning. And despite the two propane-powered freezers in Benjamin and Rosemary’s cellar, the smokehouse provided a good deal of the meat served on the table year-round.
“Joshua?” she called, her eyes adjusting to the dim light that seeped through tiny windows high on two walls and covered in brown paper to protect the meats from the sunlight.
“Hey, Phoebe. Right here.”
She spotted him standing on a stool.
He stretched his arm to remove a cord that held up a hefty side of smoked bacon. “It’s nice to see you. I wasn’t expecting—” When he made eye contact with her, he went quiet. “What’s wrong?” he asked, coming down off the stool, the side of bacon dangling from his hand on a thick cord.
Phoebe just stood there, trying not to cry but not doing a good job of it. The letter from her mother was crumpled in her cold hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, embarrassed by her tears. “I didn’t know what to do...who to come to.”
He set the bacon down on a makeshift table built from plywood and two sawhorses. “What is it?”
She pressed her lips together. “My son,” was all she could manage.
His handsome face immediately washed with concern. “Is John-John all right?”
“Yes, fine. Not hurt or sick. But—” Her hand shaking, she handed him the letter.
Joshua took it from her hand. He was wearing a plain gray Englisher sweatshirt that had a hood, and no hat. She could see it stuffed in the front pocket. Rosemary had cut all of the men’s hair the previous night. He looked younger than twenty-three with the boyish haircut and his face shaved cleanly. But she didn’t see him as a boy; if she’d had any question as to whether he was mature enough to take on the responsibilities of a husband and father, the last two weeks had dispelled that. The better she got to know him, the more she realized he was actually quite mature for a single man his age.
“The letter is from my mother,” she explained.
“You want me to read it?”
She nodded, not trusting she could tell him the contents without sobbing on his shoulder. Because right now, she desperately wanted to feel his strong arms around her.
He smoothed out the letter and began to read.
Phoebe hugged herself, watching him.
It only took a moment before he looked up at her. “He can’t do this, Phoebe. I don’t care what your mother says. He can’t legally take your son without your permission. Not if you don’t sign those papers.”
She shook her head. “Of course I’m not signing any papers. I don’t want John-John there with that man anymore.” She sniffed. She was so cold that her nose was running.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
She blew her nose, wiped it and went on. “What if Edom were to send John-John off to relatives in another state
? How would I ever find him?” She bit down on her lower lip. “My son needs to be here with me.” She looked up at Joshua again. “I just don’t know how to get him back.”
“That’s easy enough.” He grabbed her hand and led her toward the open door, his stride long and determined. “We’ll go get him.”
* * *
Joshua stood at his father’s workbench, watching him tack black fabric to a buggy seat with a heavy-duty stapler. A kerosene lamp hung above his head, casting bright yellow light across the small workshop in the rear of the dairy barn they had converted to the harness shop. Joshua was constantly amazed by his father’s ability to build or fix anything. Even though Benjamin’s trade was in leather works, he’d always wanted to build buggies, like his grandfather. Now, two years after moving from New York to Delaware, he’d decided to dabble in the dying trade. A buggy maker had to be a welder, an upholsterer, a carpenter, mechanic and painter all rolled into one.
“Did you speak to Rosemary about this?” Joshua’s father asked.
“I came to you first.”
He was clearly deep in thought. “I don’t know, Joshua. It’s a grave business, interfering with a man’s family.”
“I know, Dat,” Joshua responded. “But I don’t think Phoebe’s fear is unfounded. I have the letter here, if you’d like to read it.” He reached into the pouch pocket of his sweatshirt to remove the letter from Phoebe’s mother. A hoodie wasn’t exactly approved clothing for men in their church district, but their bishop accepted practicality and said nothing as long as the sweatshirts remained confined to the home and barn.
Benjamin glanced up at his son, who was taller than he was. “I don’t need to read it. I’ll take your word on it.” He was quiet for a moment. He added several more staples to the underside of the seat, then flipped it over to check his work. The black fabric was pleated and tacked down perfectly around the corner he’d just finished. “I’m uneasy with the idea of you entering this man’s house and taking his grandchild—”
